


Grandiose, Aggrandize, Grand

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate End to the Pilot, Anal Sex, Cock Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, The Grand, Whipping, booze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel of sorts to The Last Campaign (though not nearly as loving, considering the ocean of betrayal that separates the boys at this point). An alternative to the end of Miles’s big fight scene in the pilot. At the request of and hastily executed for deathsidhe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandiose, Aggrandize, Grand

Miles had slayed the commanding officer and his fifty-odd minions, but something told him this was not over. His niece’s Militia spy had gotten word all the way to the top that Miles was in The Grand. Sure enough, Bass himself strode through a halo of light into the dim of Miles’s hideout, laying the enormous piece of timber Miles used to lock the front door across the threshold, ensuring that the two would have privacy for their confrontation.

“Bass.”

“Miles.”

Miles casually observed some strange transformation in the pit of his belly – still hopped up on adrenaline from his killing spree, an aphrodisiac now that his old lover was before him, swords poised at the ready.

Bass felt it too – the heaviness like butter in the air. He was afraid he couldn’t finish Miles if required to save his life. Miles’s black eyes bored into him like hellfire, and Bass decided to try something else – whether a manipulation or an honest desire, it didn’t even matter. Lust boiled up from the bottom of his hungry soul, neglected all these years since Miles deserted him for a woman. That woman. Which woman? Nora? Rachel? It didn’t matter. He had Miles cornered, and he had to take him, preferably pinned to the sensually curved bar counter.

Around the bar they paced. Miles stalked Bass; Bass stalked Miles. Both great cats – no prey in sight to make sense of the food chain. Neither with the advantage. Their sword fighting technique had been dual-forged – the same brain bent on the same tactics. So could one ever really win? Or would they fight in perpetual motion?

Miles finally lunged at Bass (of course it would be him first), shattering several bottles, blades swiping at blades. No injuries. No victories. More stalking, then more little explosions of amber bottles. Miles looked almost remorseful at the waste of moonshine. After all, he’d distilled it himself with the kind of care one might bestow upon a favored child.

“Fuck, Bass. Can’t we at least fight away from the booze?” Miles growled, taking a gash to the cheek for his lack of focus. The sudden drip of metallic to his lips soured his mood further, and he lunged across the counter, knocking Bass’s short blade away into another trio of bottles.

But somehow Bass took the moment of Miles’s wrath to reposition the point of his long blade against Miles’s balls. Miles froze. Bass drew the blade firmly along the seam of the sac toward Miles’s asshole, feeling his former lover tense in fear…or perhaps desire. Bass thought for a moment of fucking Miles gruesomely with the blade – making him pay for the agony Bass’d experienced these past years without his partner and best friend.

Bass tried: “There was a time when this would have been foreplay instead of fighting. You remember? You remember how in secret, just now and then, you wanted me to tie you up? To fuck you like an animal from behind until your hole gaped and you cried like a helpless child?” Bass used the freed hand to tightly encircle Miles’s wrist, reminding him of the pleasant compression restraints offered. “We could forget all this and just… _I’d_ forget all this if you just said the word.”

Miles’s balls were pinned against the sharp end of a lethal object, and he realized he had two options: Risk the family jewels for the kill shot or take Bass up on his offer (within reason) and use the opportunity to gain leverage. As Miles didn’t feel particularly ready to lose his nuts (or Bass for that matter), he quickly decided on the latter.

Abruptly, Miles unlatched and slammed his two swords on the bar, gazing with intense ferocity into Bass’s electric blue eyes. Bass looked back in disbelief.

“Really, Miles?” Bass lower lip actually trembled. “If you’re so willing then…why…why leave in the first place?”

“Don’t know what you have till it’s gone…” Miles muttered, not caring how sappy and insipid it sounded.

“Is this a trick?” Bass’s eyelashes looked almost wet, and Miles thought triumphantly, _Of course it is, you stupid prick._ But Miles would lose a significant part of his edge when he allowed himself to be bound. He could only use psychology then, and while Miles liked to fancy himself superior, there was a small part of him that doubted he was.

Miles turned around and leaned against the bar, his hands bound together by invisible rope. He leaned his cheek against the wood and waited for Bass to begin his ceremony of dominance.

It took an exceptionally long minute for Bass to accept that Miles had submitted.

Barring the presence of actual rope, Bass unleashed his remaining sword, which clattered to the ground, and then Bass used his belt to fasten Miles’s wrists together. The leather dug into the thin flesh, generating an instant bright-red burn. Miles stuck his ass out a little further. Bass reached around roughly unzipping Miles’s pants and wrenching them to the ground along with his underwear, pulling them off with the combat boots so that Miles was left in nothing but his red longsleeve, his bare ass winking in the candlelight.

“Got any proper restraints in here, barman?” Bass asked as he disrobed himself.

Miles inclined his cheek toward Bass. “Rope – in the drawer under the bar. I’d appreciate it more than this belt.” He wriggled his fingers in confirmation.

Bass laughed. “Oh. I’m sure you’ll grow to appreciate the belt.”

Bass set about on his protracted operation. After retrieving the woven rope, he used his short sword to cut enough length for Miles’s wrists, replacing the belt with it and setting the leather aside for future use. Then he reached the blade around to Miles’s chin, just millimeters from the jugular, ghosting down until the point met fabric. Bass ran the blade down Miles’s shirt, slitting it, then peeling it off to expose the hair-lined, lean muscles he’d so missed. He’d begged for that chest in years of lonely masturbation, and now he had it...and it was Miles who’d be begging.

Bass stretched another length of the rope to tie Miles’s cock at the base, looping it around his balls to restrict the blood flow just so.

“Uhh,” Miles groaned. “Fuck, Bass. Is that really necessary?”

“Oh yes. You’ve been extraordinarily naughty. Did you forget the part where you deserted me and then tried to kill me? I’ve been looking for you for years, you piece of shit. And now instead of killing you, like I should, I’m just going to cock torture you.” Bass knotted up Miles’s ankles.

“Sounds like a decent substitution to me.”

“Good.” Bass snarled a little and drew back the belt like a whip, snapping it against Miles’s bare back.

Miles hissed but didn’t object.

Bass didn’t ask Miles to say when, he just unleashed five, ten lashes. Scarlet lines broke out all over the pale expanse of the muscled back. Bass was now painfully erect and melted forward into Miles’s body – the head of Bass’s dick proding between Miles’s ass cheeks. Bass dipped into the blood he’d harvested with his fingers and licked. He felt a little sick at his behavior, but somehow he couldn’t stop. He’d given himself over to playing this role.

“Beg me not to enter you right now – split you apart without any preparation.”

“No, Bass. I’m not begging. You have your fun. I’ll have mine.”

Bass chuckled. “If this is still fun for you, then I’m doing something wrong.”

“You _have_ been doing something wrong – for a long time. That’s why I left.”

Bass slammed Miles’s head into the bar, producing a little gasp from Miles. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bass tried to shove the blunt of a finger into Miles’s butt but from the angle could barely find the hole let alone access it. He untied Miles’s ankles and ordered him to lie face down on the bar, legs spread astride the countertop. Miles’s body looked disturbingly relaxed considering the beating he’d just taken. Almost as if he’d liked it. And maybe he had. And maybe Bass had wanted him to. Without thinking, Bass grabbed one of the intact bottles of moonshine and took a swig, drizzling some onto the bleeding back and down between the butt cheeks.

“Sadistic little shit. You going to fuck me or what?” Miles complained, writhing a little. Clearly the salt in the wounds did hurt.

Bass slid the bottle down toward Miles’s hole, pushing and grinding. Miles was too tight. This wasn’t going anywhere, but it put a near excruciating amount of pressure against Miles's ring of muscles – Bass could tell.

“Do you want me to fuck you with this bottle, Miles?”

“Bass. I coulda killed you. I didn’t. You’ve already fucked me up completely. Now do what you want with me.”

It broke Bass’s heart to hear this. Made him want to toss aside the bottle, dot away the whip burns with a soothing cloth, and make tender love to Miles like nothing had soured. But something in what Miles said didn’t sound quite right.

Bass reached down with his tongue to lick where the amber booze was dribbling in between the cheeks. He hastily tongued into Miles’s hole, which tasted sharply of alcohol and sweat (and Miles, of course. The intangible sweetness of Miles.)

Bass brushed away some of the broken glass that surrounded them to thrust his cock in one glorious stroke all the way into Miles’s clammy body. Miles looked supremely uncomfortable – his hands pinned under him, tied in a knot. Bass shoved himself forward again.

Miles felt his knuckles rip open. It felt like his asshole was ripping too, but he tried not to whimper. He willed himself to relax – to take it like a man. But if he admitted what he was feeling, it was a kind of release beyond what he could experience with anyone else. Even the whipping. It was almost as if Bass was drawing to the surface the innermost filth of Miles and allowing it to escape – to free him from suffering. Suddenly, Miles’s asshole relaxed, and Bass blissfully contacted his prostate.

“Ummm,” came the involuntary groan of satisfaction.

But instead of Bass taking this as encouragement, he pulled back out.

“Flip over Miles.” 

Miles complied. This was not about getting off easy. Bass walked barefoot on the bar behind Miles's head to kneel. He thrust his dick toward Miles's mouth. Miles was momentarily repulsed at how unsanitary this was, but he didn’t have time to think before Bass forced his lips open with a thrust. Bass proceeded to fuck him, filing Miles's senses with the taste of his own viscus. Miles choked a little and tears sprang to his eyes from the force. Finally, Bass retreated, running fingers through Miles’s graying hair on the way out. Then Bass began jacking himself over Miles’s face until come streamed out onto Miles’s nose and lips and chest.

Miles closed his eyes, genuinely dreading whatever Bass had in store next. His chest ached. This wasn’t the loving bondage of the past. This was cruelty intermingled with desire and vengeance. And part of him liked it...or at least welcomed it.

But the next thing Miles felt was Bass untying his penis and then his scrotum with gentle fingers. Miles heard the distinct sound of dripping water and cracked his eyes just enough to see Bass picking up a pail of dishwater and a sponge and setting it on the counter where Miles lay. Bass squeezed out the sponge on Miles's stomach, his abs contracting in surprise and then relaxing as Bass gently began massaging there with the grainy surface. Bass dragged the sponge down to Miles’s dick, circling the achy flesh and drawing blood into it. Miles allowed himself a moan or two (or three or four) as the sponge worked his cock, cooling it, dousing it, rubbing it toward release.

“Bass – oh!” Miles came. As suddenly as a teenager. He squirted into the sponge and onto his own thighs, panting, constricting his muscles, lurching upward. Bass dipped the sponge back into the water and then gently wiped off Miles’s genitals.

Instead of untying Miles’s hands, Bass whispered, “Keep your eyes closed.” Miles heard Bass gathering clothes and weapons.

Then, like a phantasm flashing into the wilting afternoon light, Bass creaked open the door to The Grand and was gone.


End file.
